


The Apple

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Idk this is about as fluffy as it gets in Angband ok take what you can, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Torture, also, angbang, black humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4769489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark lords don’t do romance.</p><p>No – Seriously.  How dare you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crackinthecup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/gifts).



> This is probably the worst and best thing I have ever written.
> 
> Disclaimer: I DO NOT own any of these characters.  
> Warnings: Some serious black humour up in this joint. Just. Warning. Also, mentions of gore, torture, you know – hand issues, the usual. May be some traces of vaguely implied insinuations of non-con, but blink and you’ll miss it.  
>   
> Writter for Crackinthecup thanks to her amazing idea of Melkor and Mairon and lava baths.

 

* * *

 

It is a tender moment, upon the dank dungeon floor, furrowed under layers upon layers of dense Thangorodrim stone.  
  
Tears – or rather, the dried remnants of what were once tears, where clogged ducts used to flow with careless ease – streak down two sets of dirty sunken cheeks, as the Elves embrace.  
  
Off to the side, Lieutenant Mairon scrunches up his face.  
  
“Keep it to yourself,” He snarks, for some reason acutely aware of the Orc to his right who stands, mouth open in an odd look of wonder.  “This is a public dungeon.” Mairon reminds the pair, as though this should make a difference.  
  
“Fuck you.” The blonde elf spits, from his heap upon the floor, his arms clutching loosely around the bony ribcage of his even blonder mate.  
  
“Philistine.” Mairon fingers the whip.  
  


* * *

  
“Ugh.”  
  
Mairon picks a piece of fluff off Melkor’s long overcoat, as the Vala raises an eyebrow in a mock show of interest.  
  
“Romance is for elves.” Mairon continues, glaring daggers at the two Orcs playing some strange game of footsies under the War Room table.  
  
“How do you suppose we go about this, my Lord.  The treaty did not work.”  
  
From his portable fold-down throne, Melkor snorts.  
  


* * *

  
In a show of revulsion, Mairon screws up the letter with one hand.  
  
“A love harp. Really.” He remarks, glaring over at the unwrapped mystery gift with a look of deepest contempt. The delivery Orc shifts in discomfort, as the Lieutenant stalks the length of the torture chamber with a look akin to someone having shoved something very foul up his nose.  As it were, it had merely been a few feathers, and an eagle talon – long since departed.  Regardless:  
  
“What on Eä does he think you’re going to do with this.” Sauron scoffs.  
  
“Drivel.” The Maia snaps, after but a near minute, having firmly lost his patience, and motions at the guard: “Get this out of my sight before I lose my innards.”  
  
“I wish you would.” A voice peels tied from the bonds upon the wall.  From his position under the shackles, Maedhros glares.  
  
“You will be losing far more than that this evening, Freckles.” Mairon spits, the crack of his whip leaving a chip across the rubble of the dungeon floor. “Better loosen up; you’re going back up there when I’m done with you.”  
  


* * *

  
The next day, Maedhros is gone.  
  
Nothing but a cool rusty chain swings about in a wind atop Thangorodrim’s highest peak, weighed down with naught but the loose and tattered evidence of a slight struggle.  
  
Gothmog finds a feather, lying reddened at the base.  
  
He sighs.  
  
Although, it takes the Lieutenant more than six days to realize; and Morgoth an additional twenty.  
  


* * *

  
“What do you mean he is gone!”  
  
“Gone. Vanished. Disappeared in a cloud of smoke and oh, – well – …. There is something.”  
  
Mairon waves a stump of what resembles the hacked up remains of a wrist and hand, the thin white fingers of its owner drooping in a shriveling position that curl toward the palm.  A keen sort of gleam resides in the Lieutenant’s catlike eyes as he stares up at Melkor, and the look at once both makes the Vala very uncomfortable and … rather excited in the pants.  
  
Stupid Maia; and yet, the Lieutenant continues:  
  
“I suppose he thinks it is … how doth thy term it my Lord,” Mairon flails, looking around for help.  The three Orc captains nearby sternly avoid eye contact.  Mairon sends them a leer, before attempting to regroup his thoughts, still floundering for purchase: “that Quenya term that makes me want to retch…”  
  
“… Romantic?” Supplies a begrudging Gothmog, his fiery eyebrows furling in a scowl. The Balrog is shining the head of a wide-tipped axe to Mairon’s side, a possession Mairon had taught the Maia how to smithy himself an age past. “You think this is romantic?”  
  
“Is that my axe?” Mairon bites, for a moment forgetting about the whole ordeal as Lord Melkor’s face darkens further behind now his craning head.  
  
Gothmog snorts a curl of fire: “I would think not.”  
  
“Yes, I think it is. Give it here.” Mairon reaches out an arm, sneering as Gothmog snatches the pole out of his reach.  
  
“Get your own safety blanket.” Gothmog twirled the weapon in a silent threat. “I part with this not, lest to slay Mandos himself.”  
  
“Sharpen it like that, you’ll get your chance –”  
  
“Enough! I have lost my precious wall banner and the two of you are discussing some meaningless damn axe!”  
  
“He was the _Kingdom_ ’s wall banner, Master. And, to be technical, he did still leave us a piece behind –”  
  
The look the Vala threw Sauron fell somewhere between a hiss and the opening gates of hell. Sauron stopped mid-sentence, as Gothmog swore an oath of bad will towards the Maia from his right.  
  
“My Lord,” Sauron jumped in, seizing the moment of confusion to switch topics, straightening his back as he made a show of folding his hands and assuming his best military stance: “Think of it like this: this is a prime opportunity for us now to act.”  
  
Melkor glares at him, but Mairon continues, oblivious.  
  
“The elves are regrouping, and no doubt preparing for an assault. Their encampments in a perfect state of disarray and confusion.”  
  
“Where are you…”  
  
“With the right infiltration, I think I could sway them to attack from through the old mines of the dwarrow in the East.  You know whom of which I refer, my Lord; the Ungoli–”  
  
“I think not.” Melkor cuts in, his voice a growl: “ _You_ remain here.” Mairon pauses, catching a look of something burgeoning and wild in the Vala’s eyes. Though it may just be a trick of the light, as surely the Vala cannot still be upset after an incident so long ago, when the opportunity it presents is so promising…  
  
“My value is lost in remaining here, my Lord, when they are weak and can be swayed–“  
  
“If I gave you the impression this is up for argument, Sauron, you have misread me. You will stay in Angband to oversee the ground troops, and ensure the armoury is running at full production. Gothmog,” Melkor barks, ignoring with a steel gaze Mairon’s mouth opening in protest.  The Balrog pauses the polishing of his axe to bend his head in a show of compliance.  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Prepare the outskirts of the kingdom for invasion from the mountains, and strengthen the fortifications. I will have not the breath of a single bird cross the lines into Angband, without its neck snapped clean in two. Do I make myself clear?”  
  
Gothmog nods his head lower, though Mairon remains prone, nothing but the slightest tip of his chin acknowledging the order, as the Maia bites back more of what will surely become a torrential rant over that evening’s sparring practice. There are some days when Gothmog truly wishes he could smack the insolent sneer off the dainty Maia’s face; but standing in front of his butt buddy and Lord of Angband, he supposes now is not the best time.  
  
Melkor, sunken back into his worn iron throne with a look of growing wrath, waves a hand of clear dismissal.  
  
Snorting, the Balrog leaves in a rumble of scorching heavy steps along the breadth of the marble floor, the whip fit in the leather strap around his back dragging in a sear across the ground behind him.  
  
And Mairon, standing still in front of the throne and having made no move to leave, just cannot help it:  
  
“I still don’t think this is going to work.”  
  


* * *

  
In the end, Mairon stays, and the cool memory of the scratch marks bend down his back as he stands, mace at the ready, directing the front line.  
  
The siege is going well, he supposes – well, as well as a siege can, of course, though never is there a day that Sauron does not thirst for blood – and he is almost ready to assume their triumph.  
  
Almost, that is, until the arrow that should have hit a confused one-eyed Orc stumbling at his side bounces off the edge of a poorly smithed Angband shield, and flings through the crevice between Sauron’s armour plates, right about location of his sphincter.  
  
It lands with a clang, as the impact from the tail jars an echo through the steel of his breastplate.  
  
Sauron looks down in surprise; although on retrospect, perhaps twists a bit too far around –  
  


* * *

  
“Stupid.”  
  
The first word that makes it through the haze leaves Sauron little doubt of whom he is in the company.  
  
Why and how, however, he is of rather less surety.  
  
“Why can I not move my arm?”  
  
“Oh no, you’re fine. It is my army that hath suffered, Mairon. The siege broke, sometime yesterday afternoon. I have lost thousands, thanks to your stupid faulty breastplate.”  
  
“My head hurts.”  
  
“Run a funeration for you then, I shall?” The snark is cutting.  
  
Mairon looks over, confused and frowning and his back throbs and –  
  
“Oh. … What happened to you?”  
  
Melkor looks over from the adjourning infirmary bed with a glare – well, as hard a glare as the Vala can possibly manage, under three sets of cream furs and a disgustingly messy bandaging attempt that wraps the top half of his torso. Mairon can still see the stem of an arrow, pointing out from between the material.  
  
“I think they forgot one.” He informs Melkor, who looks back at him with a deep look of condemnation.  
  


* * *

  
“Anyway, so I told him he can take the dead eagle and stuff it up his –”  
  
“Would you like me to match the other one for good measure?”  
  
Melkor pauses, blinking down at where Mairon is crouched between his legs. “What?”  
  
“The other hand, my Lord. I can even the job out for you, make it look like a new fashion statement.” Mairon grins, a split of light lips and glossy teeth. His eyes sparkle, and Melkor traces the threading border of Mairon’s chatoyant pupils with his gaze. “Like gloves.” Mairon murmurs, “Black gloves of a King…”  
  
“Do what you will.” Melkor grunts, though he makes no move to remove his hands.  
  
The cuts across his chest are healing well, as Mairon’s own battle wounds are completely healed, but still, here, the sting remains. The burn, that dreadful burn that reminds him of His scornful gaze and Manwë’s judging stare, and it eats into his fingers –  
  
“Done.” The Maia sits back below him, perched upon his heels.  Melkor stares for a fraction too long, his eyes staring at nothing, at everything – and Mairon’s smile is a coy twist of thin pink lips, and the Maia’s eyes shine with … mirth? With … something else?  
  
“I have an idea, my Lord.  Yes. … Come.”  
  
Mairon stands, then, and offers his hand of which Melkor doth not take, but stands upon his own accord and dwarfs the slim Lieutenant in height with careless ease. The room trembles around him, a memory of the battle sung the night before, of which neither did attend. Mairon’s hair is coiled in a bun, and Melkor decides he does not like it.  
  
But the Maia is off across the room before he can curl a comment between his teeth, and Melkor frowns and follows for fear of being left behind.  
  


* * *

  
They arrive in a widened alcove lined with pale yellow limestone melted across the edges. Mairon halts in front of him to suck in a breath, as though tasting the air, thick as it is with the scent of rock and ore.  
  
“Every time.” The Maia puffs, his breath lingering in a strange haze in front of his face, and it is so hot, and yet Melkor cannot feel it: “I think I shall make something perfect here one day.”  
  
And for a moment Melkor feels an ache, unlike the burning sharpness in his hands, and it spreads across his chest.  Some folly of this human form, he supposes – a glitch.  
  
He is weakened.  
  
The Maia draws him in again by hand, and Melkor is caught as the light from the bright hot orange glow of the magma pool spread out before them sprigs in flutters of light along the clashing tint of Mairon’s hair.  And how is it that this lesser being, this frail spirit (no match for his might and his greed and his vengeance) can remain so perfect and poised – with nothing but a light dusting of freckles marring the smoothness of his skin – where Melkor is dented and burned and scarred and his very tongue tastes like the screams of the dead –  
  
“Join me, would you?  Just once.”  
  
And there, Mairon is sliding off Melkor’s robe, yet, for once: it is innocent. The Lieutenant’s hands brush across the scars on his chest, but linger they not, as Mairon’s own clothes are fast to follow, and he draws them both under the skin of the thick and bubbling pool.  
  
The warmth is but a tickle around Melkor, yet a part of him can feel the scald. It is not enough, for just some fleeting stretch in time; a stolen moment.  Yet Melkor can later remember the taste, and the smell – and the sight of Mairon’s glossing, cat-slit eyes, that burn with a fury brighter than the lava itself.  
  
Mairon’s lips are swelling red from the heat and his long gold hair parts across the top of the pool, a mottling flush now patching across his cheeks. Melkor wonders how he himself may look now, with pale skin thinner than the very limpidity of snow.  
  
“Like what you see?” Mairon is saying, and the sentiment takes a few moments for Melkor to click.  
  
He snorts, and averts his eyes, quickly shuts down the thought.   
  
“To this day I do not know how Aulë stood you.”  
  
“Don’t be silly.” Mairon grins. “That was easy.”  
  


* * *

  
“What did you do with the other one, in the end?”  
  
Mairon comes up for a breath that serves as a chance to send Melkor a scalding grin.  
  
“The blonde one?”  
  
“I killed him.” Clearly.  
  
Of course. The elf had not a hope in hell of escape.  
  
“Sliced him in two, right across the stomach.  Thought it would be a nice match for that hand they left us, since it caused us so much hassle.  Something to write home to, some would say.”  
  
“You had better hope you never wind up in Mandos’ Halls, Maia.  You won’t make the most well-received guest.”  
  
Mairon laughs, a pleasant sound.  Like a time long forgotten; the faded memory of a song.  
  
"I enjoyed it, though." Shrugging.  
  
He presses Melkor firm against the wall of the pool, ring-adorned fingers tangling a muss into the Vala’s smoking ebony hair, sticking with lava.  Strands catch in the grooves of Mairon’s jewellery, and they pull – but the Vala cannot quite bring himself to care.  
  
He is distracted, for –  
  
“Of course you did.” He murmurs, in a voice a tad too rough.  And in the moment forgets he should really be in charge of this whole thing – yet here, with his back still scraping against the wall, Mairon’s grin seems to widen.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
And Melkor bends back into the kiss.  
  


* * *

  
“This is not considered ‘romantic’, right?”  
  
“Humm?”  
  
“You know, you mentioned before, earlier.  A few moons ago.  With the Elves and the hand and –”  
  
But Melkor is cut off, and Mairon presses firm into his chest and breaks him mid-sentence, and the Maia shakes his head.  The kiss is long and winding and they remain, for longer than either is much paying attention, in the slick and heat of the pool.   
  
It is lazy, and Mairon is half-hard against his abdomen, sitting hot – hotter than the magma across his chest – and thick upon his lap; and yet, despite his best efforts, for some reason Melkor simply lacks the drive, content rather, it seems, in running his hands up the scalding curve of Mairon’s back.  
  
“No, my Lord…” And it is Mairon who breaks the kiss, in a brushing huff of air, that puffs along the pinkened shell of Melkor’s ear, and he dips into a grin:  
  
“Not a chance.”

 


End file.
